


The Great Reaver Club of Skyhold

by SubparMana



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/F, F/M, Mild Language, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 17:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18077630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SubparMana/pseuds/SubparMana
Summary: Tamar starts a reaver club in Skyhold's garden. Needless to say, many will disapprove. In this first chapter, she puts the plan in motion and the stage is set for a ridiculous tale of love, lust, and getting even.





	The Great Reaver Club of Skyhold

The Great Reaver Club of Skyhold

Chapter 1

Tamar was a veteran of many battles. Her towering physique bared scars that would make a darkspawn cringe. If you met her gaze for long, you would be consumed with fear by the dark hunger in her eyes. Yet underneath this deadly visage laid a heart pure and good. Death and glory had been her only passions, until the day she met Hall. Our story begins in Skyhold where Tamar now lives.

Next to a window on the bottom floor of the Herald’s Rest, Maryden was heartily recounting the Inquisitor’s timely rescue at the Winter Palace. The fire burned hotter than ever that night, well into the early hours of dawn. Nestled away by the roaring flames, a ragtag band of heroes were celebrating with a friendly game of Wicked Grace. Well, friendly for the most part, until…

“This is pointless!” Tamar slammed her hand of cards down. Like a seesaw, the tabletop flipped over the barrel it sat upon and everyone in the Herald’s Rest ducked as full tankards launched across the room. The place was in so much cheer, however, that most people figured it was only a bit of raucous fun, so they paid no particular mind. Sweeping her drenched locks stuck to her face, Tamar looked to her companions with wicked satisfaction. “There, that’s better.”

Sidony gaped in horror at her ruined sea silk dress—a gift from the Pentaghast family no less—now stained dark red. “Better? Look at me, I’m… ugh!” Exasperated, she rushed out of the tavern, stomping her feet furiously. “Why did I ever agree to this? I am so done with you all!” Her voice shrieked with such high-pitch fury, it could have raised the dead.

Hall bent down to pick up the table. Belinda, whose eyes had not left the boy since they started, swooped down next to him. “Oh!” he squeaked, his agile body suddenly tense with nervousness. “Thank you, my lady. Y-You are very kind,” he blurted awkwardly, heart racing when their eyes met. “And… beautiful! No, wait, that was wrong. I’m sorry,” the rogue shrunk away into the folds of his cloak, embarrassed. Belinda giggled at the sight, warmth building to her cheeks and making her beauty even more apparent in the glow of the Tavern ambience.

Bitter with envy, Tamar hissed. “He complimented you, foolish girl. And what do you do? _Giggle_ ,” she mocked, looking for support from the others at the table, but—whether out of sheer awkwardness or fear of gaining the reaver’s hatred—they pretended not to have noticed. The Iron Bull bellowed in laughter as he walked past, and Tamar shot him a look of disgust. “Quiet, oxman. Or _you_ will be my next victim.”

He raised his mug heartily. “Now that’s more like it! Fire like yours would even scorch a dragon!” He patted her on the head and returned to the company of his Chargers for another drink. Tamar greatly disapproved.

The enraged woman rose out of her chair and wrenched the tabletop away from her friends, smashing it to pieces with her fisted gauntlet. She then marched across the room, trembling with uncanny excitement. “I have stood among burning battlefields scorched by dragon-fire and _laughed_. I have drank the blood of hundreds of dragons—some slain by my very hands—and reveled in their pain and suffering. Do not mock me with your jests, oxman.”

In just a few quick strides she reached the horned giant. He was settling down into his usual spot when suddenly two strong hands grabbed his horns and jerked his head backwards. The Chargers shot up to defend their captain, but he raised a hand to dismiss them, a smile playing on his lips. “If that’s the way you want it, then hold tight!” He roared and spun around, sending Tamar swinging wide. She held on with her dear life, a trail of slobber clinging to her open mouth.

Her flailing legs knocked into Krem, who spilled his cup of spiced wine down his front. “Aww great, here we go again!” he groaned.

The Iron Bull circled once more and brought his head down, flipping Tamar over him and onto a nearby table. She landed with a loud thud that resonated throughout the tavern, drawing everyone’s attention. Instinctively, the woman reared back her legs and launched her feet deep into his abdomen. The Qunari’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull, and he stumbled backwards in pain. He took a minute to catch his breath, but then muttered with a grin, “Is that all you’ve got?”

Tamar answered with a dive tackle. The two collapsed to the floor, rolling on the ground and trading blows to the face. The Bull then grabbed the edges of her breastplate and flung her back towards the wall. She slammed into it and crashed down to the floor, the weight of her armor crushing the breath out of her lungs. Tamar staggered back to her feet, her world spinning rapidly. She choppily waved a finger in Bull’s direction when he slammed into her with his leading shoulder.

By now, everyone was on their feet rooting for their favorite fighter. The two reavers wrestled their way to the bar, knocking over bottles and chairs along the way. Eventually, Tamar’s back was pressed to the counter. She hastily fumbled around for anything useful, until her fingertips grazed a heavy bottle. Without hesitating, she grabbed hold of it and smacked the Bull across the head, shattering the bottle to pieces and drenching the man’s face with dark liquor. The crowd went silent.

Cabot the bartender stared in disbelief. “That was the last bottle of Golden Scythe 4:90…” he said, his voice trailing. Anger soon flashed across his face. “That’s it you bastards, I’m giving you an ass whooping!” The dwarf leaped over the bar and joined the fray. Maryden broke into a heated song with her lute, and the entire tavern went wild—fists swinging and curses rolling just as the Inquisitor walked in, back from Orlais and thirsty for a round.

The sight that greeted him was certainly the last thing he expected.

Lavellan rolled his eyes. The Winter Palace had given him enough excitement to last a _lifetime_ , so instead of breaking up the brawl, he turned to leave. Sera, however, rushed into the fray, eyes wild with frenzy, hollering like an animal. Outside, the fighting echoed through the courtyard. The Inquisitor trudged passed the worried onlookers, dreading the backlash from Josephine sure to follow. _Perhaps a good massage will soften the edges of her sharp rebuke_ , he thought. Suddenly, a loud shatter rang, followed by panicked screams. The tavern’s patrons poured out of the windows and door, waving their arms frantically while fleeing the cloud of angry bees loosed upon them. Sera cried amidst the chaos, “Shits, wrong one!" and barrel-rolled out of the window. _A very long massage_ , he thought.

 

…

 

The morning after, Tamar woke up with the mother of all headaches that could’ve easily rivaled late Father Kolgrim’s beard. Her body felt on fire from all the burning bee stings. _When I find who let loose that blasted jar of bees…_ she thought. The night flashed through her mind. It was a tavern brawl that would go down in history, no doubt about it. One pilgrim had lost his hand, a cleric had been removed from office, and Belinda had soiled her trousers—well, the last part wasn’t true but Tamar liked to think so. She winced as she sat up in bed. In truth, the pain coursing through her body was a welcome companion, because the dragon inside her was calm for once, not restlessly clawing at her veins for something to devour. But her stomach gurgled something fierce. Tamar’s cheeks suddenly swelled as she turned to the side, expelling the previous night’s contents on the floor. Tamar looked around, her vision now hazy. The pungent odor coming from below elicited another surge of vomit, and she wanted to pass out.

She looked up, trying to get a bearing on her surroundings. It looked like she was in a barn. Someone was hammering metal down below, and the room was warm like the tavern. She figured she awoke in the smithy. Cassandra’s loft was on the floor above her, and she heard the woman pacing in her hard, steel boots above. _Better leave_ , Tamar thought, _I definitely don’t need the Seeker’s wrath right now_.

The dull, monotonous hammering reverberated throughout the barn, and it began to drive the reaver crazy, pounding in her mind with every beat of metal. Tamar groaned, wiping the residue still clinging to her mouth. She gingerly made her way downstairs, throwing an evil glare at the clueless blacksmith as she passed. “What?” he asked. “Just doing me job.” Tamar bared her fangs and stomped out instead of stuffing the lad in the furnace.

Later in the medical tent, she was approached by Mother Giselle. Her eyes narrowed at the priest. “What do you want, chantry dog?”

Her harsh words bounced right off the serene woman, who dipped her head at the insult and replied with careful consideration. “The Maker sends its faithful to those who are most in need of His love, my child. But I do not come to impart His wisdom—which so often falls on deaf ears—instead, I have a…” she cleared her throat, “—friendly invitation to a gathering, of sorts. Tomorrow afternoon in the garden.” She passed the reaver a warm cup of tea.

Tamar took a sip and gurgled it in her mouth, then spat it out. “My apologies, oh revered Mother. But could you be more specific? My misguided faith leads to all sorts of confusion.”

Shifting nervously under the reaver’s intense gaze, the pious woman replied, “It is for brave and honorable people like yourself, who have served the Inquisition—faithfully—these past few months.”

Tamar could _feel_ the blood rushing up the Priest’s head, pulsating with every beat of her quickening heart. “You don’t believe that, do you?” she asked. “You know as well as everyone else that I’m here because I had no choice in the matter. You’re wasting your breath, get to the point.” She stood up, towering over the Revered Mother. “Who sent you, and why?”

“I will not lie to you, this was not my idea,” the priest blurted. “There is a group therapy session in the gardens tomorrow. I was asked to tell you, thinking it would benefit your—,” she straightened, “—temperament.”

Tamar stepped close and sniffed. The priest was pampered in Andraste’s Grace, an obnoxious perfume that filled Tamar’s nostrils with the woman’s pious devotion. There were certainly a number of things she wanted to say, but out of restraint, she chose not to. “I think I’ll come,” Tamar said. “Besides, I like hearing people whine. In battle, it brings me great joy as I sink my blade into them.” Smirking, she turned and walked away, leaving the Revered Mother behind in the crowded, muggy tent.

Once outside, Tamar breathed in the welcome, frosty air with a long, deep breath. It reminded her of the Haven she once knew, before the blasted Hero of Ferelden came. She looked around the courtyard, imagining the rugged stone buildings melting away before her, transforming into the familiar Haven square. The imposing Skyhold Keep became the wooden Chantry where she used to listen to Father Eirik preach in the early morning hours when the sun was still rising. The lofty stone walls transformed into thick, tree lines blanketed with heavy clumps of snow, and the Herald’s Rest became another tavern, only filled with familiar, smiling faces instead of the hostile glances she often received in Skyhold.

When her town was besieged by Chantry pilgrims and zealots, Tamar was one of the few who stayed and fought, choosing to defend her faith rather than submit. She and her comrades fought well for a few days, but the Chantry dogs kept coming. Eventually, they were taken captive and given a choice: rot in a prison cell for eternity or fight alongside the Inquisition. Tamar reluctantly chose the latter, hoping to gain the Inquisition’s trust and bargain her sentence in exchange for her comrades’ freedom. She’d been bitter ever since.

However, things were starting to change, and the reaver’s hard exterior was slowly rubbing away. She sometimes wondered if she was even the same person anymore. Regardless of her dislike towards Mother Giselle, the woman’s words ate at her heart. _Faithful. Am I faithful to this… Inquisition_? In truth, the Inquisition had become something like a family, she just didn’t want to admit it. What started as a reluctant pact, had grown into a thrilling journey. She wouldn’t have met Hall, either, and just thinking of the dashing archer brought butterflies to her stomach. She would have even skipped, if it didn’t remind her of _Belinda_. The very thought of the damned Templar banished the image of Haven in her mind. Tamar stormed off, the heels of her heavy boots making prints in the ground with every stride.

Just then a brilliant idea dawned on her. She halted in her tracks. “Yes…yes I think that would work,” she mused quietly to herself, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. “What’s the adage? Two birds with one stone?” Wetting her lips, she continued her trot with renewed vigor up towards the private chambers of the Nevarran mistress of death.

 

…

 

“I’ve no interest in your twisted, carnal fantasies.” Sidony’s tone was aloof, as usual. She sat behind a mirror, brushing her long, dark hair. It was a surprise she could even see at all, given the lack of light in the room. The drapes were shut, the only source of light—and heat for that matter—was a clustered bunch of candles, whose wax pooled down the black vanity table.

Tamar scoffed. “Not that kind of preposition!”

The necromancer peered around the edge with an eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Oh? Pray tell, what are you on about?” She was slightly embarrassed by the assumption.

“All I’m saying is you’d have to conjure a dead body—or two—when I give the signal,” Tamar explained. “Simple as that. You could even do it from a distance so no one would see.” Tamar caught a whiff of something putrid laying in the corner and almost gagged.

The ends of Sidony’s luscious black lips curved upwards. “Now you _are_ a catch. Alright, I’ll play along with your little… game. But you will owe me a favor in the future. Perhaps the near future… maybe even tonight?” She tipped her head, eyes fixated on Tamar’s figure and eyeing her from head to toe. “Or now, if you prefer. We are alone, the two of us…”

The air suddenly grew thick. Tamar shifted awkwardly in front of the sorceress. It wasn’t the first time Sidony tried to seduce her, but it was the first time she did so in private. For a moment, Tamar entertained the idea of the Nevarran’s long, slender fingertips running down her stomach, but she pushed the thought out of her mind. “Forget it. I don’t know why I even came,” she snapped, making a hasty exit in a desperate attempt to escape the dark seductress and her gloomy den.

“Very well, but the offer still stands if you change your mind.” Sindony’s voice had a strange way of sending shivers down your back, which only added to the reaver’s frustration. Tamar shot her a glare and proceeded to leave. She would need to find another mage now, but few in Skyhold would admit to practicing such dark arts. No, Tamar needed a different option. She nearly ran into a messenger boy who was carrying an armful of scrolls on her way out Sidony’s room.

“S-Sorry!” he shouted as he blurred past. “The Quartermaster told me Leliana needs these now!” Tamar shook her head. The fool lad was lucky she wasn’t in one of her moods, or else Ser Morris would’ve been short one errand boy.

 _But perhaps the Quartermaster might help_ , she thought…

…

Ser Morris cried in fear when Tamar slammed him against the wall. “Okay! Okay! I’ll do it! Just don’t hurt me!” Warmth spread down his trousers.

“Good,” said the reaver. “I’ll need the box delivered tomorrow, in the gardens. I’ll be waiting, so if you don’t show up, you can bet I’ll be back.”

“Fine,” replied the lad. “But I swear, I can’t lose my job. My family is depending on me. If the Inquisitor finds out I’m requisitioning dead bodies, he’ll have my head!” The last word squeaked out of him. It was almost cute.

“You have my word,” she assured him. “If anyone disapproves, I’ll tell them it was my idea. For now, you just need to worry about _me_.”

The Inquisition’s quartermaster sniffled and nodded in agreement. Tamar let him down and watched with amusement as he stammered upstairs to find fresh clothing. _Well, that was easier than I thought_.

The table next to her was almost spilling at the sides with detailed architectural drawings, acquisitions for more tapestries, as well as a few odd trinkets—collector’s items—scattered amongst the mess. She picked up a figurine, delicately carved and painted to match an archer. “My bowman,” she whispered adoringly before hastily shoving it in her pocket before anyone saw. _Now for the hard one_.

 

…

 

The ravens in the keep’s spire were an unruly bunch. They squawked and flapped their wings in the cages hanging from the rafters. Tamar sympathized for the birds. “I know what it’s like to be caged,” she said. “They’ll set you free, granted you do what they want.”

She drummed her fingers impatiently on the railing while she waited. The spire was empty today, save for the birds and stacks of unopened crates. She didn’t care to imagine what they were filled with, so long as there wasn’t anything—or anyone—alive in them.

“But why do the birds still return?” asked a woman, her tone light and innocent, yet Tamar knew better. This was no simple girl.

“Perhaps it’s because they’re foolish,” Tamar replied, pretending not to care.

“Or perhaps it’s because they have purpose. We all need a purpose. It’s what keeps us going, yes?” Leliana stepped out of the shadows and let one of her birds out. “My ravens are treated with respect. They’re finicky, yes, but well cared for. In fact, I believe they’ve come to appreciate the hand extended to them.” She waved her arm, allowing the raven to take flight. It circled around the room, but didn’t leave. Instead, it came back down and perched itself on her shoulder. Leliana petted it and returned it to its cage.

The Spymaster walked over to the window, hands resting gently behind her back. “I’m told you wanted a private audience. What worries you, Tamar?”

Tamar frowned at that choice of word. “Apparently, everyone thinks I need to explain my feelings. Yet the only thing I _feel_ is annoyance.”

“Or rage, perhaps?” Leliana turned to get a better look at the warrior. “You’ve been busy as of late. A tavern brawl here, threatening a quartermaster there.”

“Have you been spying on me?” Tamar asked incredulously. “It’s no business of yours.”

“I _am_ the Spymaster,” teased Leliana. “But don’t worry, there’re more important things going on right now than the complaints I’ve heard about. Besides, a little fun and excitement isn’t always a bad thing.”

Tamar relaxed her shoulders and began pacing. “Well, I didn’t know who else to talk to about this. It’s nothing important, but I was wondering if you could… send someone a message?”

Leliana shrugged. “I send messages every day. Who’s this one for?”

“Belinda,” Tamar said almost too quickly, stopping in her tracks as she did so. “I… need her to come to the garden tomorrow afternoon.”

The Spymaster remained calm and composed. “The Templar? She’s a nice enough girl, why can’t you just ask her?”

Tamar’s face twisted into a grimace, growing more irritable by the second. “Because I hate that cheery girl!” she shouted. “She’s always… ugh, so perfect.” She slammed her armored fist into a nearby crate, bursting through the wood with ease and trapping it deep inside. Tamar tried to shake it loose but to no avail. With a growl, she threw her hand—box and all—over the railing and _pulled_. Her hand tore free, nearly smacking Leliana across the face. The bard instinctively dodged it with a graceful sidestep as if nothing happened.

Tamar laughed nervously and scratched the back of her head. Strangely, her hair clumped together as she did so. She looked down at her hand, which was covered in a sticky cream, and twisted her face even harder. “What the—”

“Hair gel,” remarked Leliana, “for our Commander. He orders them in bulk.”

“Right…weird,” said Tamar, wiping her hand on her cotton undershirt. “Anyways, I figured you’re the best person to ask regarding this matter. No one else listens to me. It’s nothing bad, I swear. I don’t mean to hurt the girl. I just want him to see—” Tamar’s voice trailed off.

“ _Him_?” pressed Leliana. She was curious now. “I wasn’t aware there was another involved.” She sat down in her chair, leaned back, and crossed her legs. Reaching over to a nearby bottle of wine, she poured it in a goblet and stirred it ever so slightly. “You have a crush,” she said enthusiastically. The bard took a sip of her drink and savored the sweetness.

“That’s private,” Tamar seethed through gritted teeth. “Listen, I just need you to write out a letter for me, and have it delivered to Belinda saying it’s from—” she sighed. “Saying it’s from Hall.”

A devilish grin played on Leliana’s glossy, pink lips. “Ah, I see now. Hall… the young archer trained by the Dalish? Yes, he’s good friends with our Inquisitor actually.” She mulled it over in her head a bit. “This sounds deceitful… but then again, I’ve developed a penchant for such things. But first,” she raised a finger. “I want to hear your plan.”

Tamar crossed her arms. “You won’t tell anyone?”

“No,” answered Leliana. “Silence is my specialty after all.”

Tamar pulled up a chair, plopped down, and spilled _everything_ out, starting with her very first mission with the Inquisition, where she and Hall met for the first time. From what Leliana gathered, he didn’t like her at first, but the reaver was convinced he’d change his mind since then.

“There was this one time, you see, out in the Hinterlands,” said Tamar. “We were patrolling the woods around the western fortress when all of a sudden, Hall came falling out of a tree, squirming like one of those cute little fennecs. I caught him before he hit the ground, and for a moment, we just looked into each other’s eyes. Not like the way you look at a person before slicing his head off, or before you slit their throat and drink their blood, we just sort of… stared and saw each other’s souls, you know?”

Leliana was nodding in agreement between large gulps of wine. By the time Tamar finished, she had downed three glasses and her cheeks were flush with contentment. “Well,” she said, releasing a sigh. “I can see you’ve had your eye on this boy for quite some time. And you want to prove that you’re a better match than Belinda, so shall we hear this plan now?”

The reaver stood up as if she was announcing in front of a crowd. “I’m going to start a club. It shall commence tomorrow afternoon, and I want Hall and Belinda to be there. It shall be known as… The Great Reaver Club of Skyhold.” Her eyes twinkled with a light of their own when she said it.

“But you do realize Mother Giselle is hosting a meeting too… at the same time no less?” asked Leliana. “Unless you mean to interrupt it…” The bard then nodded in approval. “Ah, how very amusing! Well, so long as no one gets hurt, I guess that’s fine. If I were you though, I’d worry about Josie’s reaction. From what I hear, she gave the Inquisitor quite the licking after your little tavern brawl. And not the enjoyable kind.”

Tamar’s eyebrows shot up. “He was there? I didn’t even realize.”

“I’m sure you were just busy riding the Bull,” Leliana teased. “I shall draft a letter and have it sent to Belinda, no worries.”

Tamar smiled in appreciation. “Thank the Maker, I was afraid I was going to have to ask Sidony again…” _That would be awkward_ , she thought.

“But Tamar, you aren’t a bad person. For what it’s worth, I think if you just tried being more open with your feelings, people would be more accepting of you.”

“What good does that do? Everyone here thinks I’m a demon because I don’t worship their version of the Maker. I’m alone, and with no one to talk to…”

Leliana placed a hand on Tamar’s. “You’re not alone. I for one, can relate to what you’re going through. There was a time when I was a lay sister in the Chantry. Nobody approved of me because I was different. But eventually I found people who did listen, and they remain my close friends to this day, despite our differences.”

Tamar let out a deep breath heavy with unexpected loneliness. She knew the Spymaster was right. “I… suppose I can try to be more open. After all, you showed me kindness when no one else would.”

The Spymaster pleasantly nodded. “Now, let’s have some fun, shall we? Between you and me, I’ve done this before, but it involved Cullen.” She giggled and gracefully dipped the tip of her quill into an inkwell…

 

…

 

Belinda blushed with excitement as she folded the letter back, holding it tight to her chest. _He loves me_ … was all she could think. It was a date, then. Skyhold’s first petting zoo. She re-read it again, confirming that it was indeed Hall who wrote it. “Such a romantic way with words, too,” she grinned into the letter, heart fluttering like a thousand butterflies. “Maker’s breath Belinda, what are you doing?! You need to get ready for it!” the woman scolded herself and rushed around her room. For one, she had to find a suitable dress for the occasion—not too formal, but certainly not the usual drab the chantry issues its Templars. Time was short.

But who could she ask? Sidony had a way with fashion, sure, but she was an apostate. Then there was Josephine—but the Inquisition’s ambassador was _surely_ too busy to be bothered with something so trivial. “Ah, Isabela!” she squeaked, almost tripping on the carpet as she burst out of her quarters. “All the boys like her, maybe she has some good advice! Yes, that settles it.” The Templar skipped off to see the duelist, who was no doubt gambling away her coin at the Herald’s Rest.

…

Evening was fast approaching Skyhold. A single shaft of light pierced though a small slit in the keep’s spire, falling across the lower portion of a woman’s face, her glossy, pink lips twisted into a smile as she watched Belinda make her way towards the tavern. “I can count on you then?” she asked.

“Of course,” replied a masked woman from behind, whose heavy Orlesian accent was as sharp as the Silverite dagger in her hand. “Both my blade, and my discretion.”

“Then get it done.” She waited for the rogue to leave before taking a sip of her dark red wine. A trickle ran down her chin, and she brushed her fingertips across it, examining the residue smeared on her hand.

“Blood is a sweet price to pay, Lavellan,” she said, and then vanished into the shadows of the spire as the final rays of light disappeared behind the mountaintops.

To be continued…


End file.
